Son Usurps Father, Claims Mother (open to one woman)

Son Usurps Father, Claims Mother (closed for sierrahughes)

You pass me a plate of waffles, a gob of cum on your cheek. It dangles, threatens to drip into my syrup.

“Tha… thanks, Mom.” It’s a croak, all I can muster.

“Fill up, James.” The cum droops to the corner of your lips. “It’s yummy. Stuff yourself full.”

Like how Dad stuffed your pussy full this morning? Filled you with all his cum?

I smile to myself: that’s not quite true. Clearly at least one giant wad of his cum missed the mark.

“Oops.” Dad appears beside you and wipes your cheek dry.

I jump an inch from my chair, divert my eyes to my waffles. I didn’t see him come in. I was too busy exalting his handiwork.

You simper and grab his wrist.

A long moment where your eyes lace into his.

You hold eye contact as you slurp his cum-drenched fingers into your mouth. Further than necessary. Down to his knuckles. You let them slip halfway out—and you slurp them back down.

I shudder and thank God I’m sitting down, hidden by the table.

“Mmmm.” You finally let Dad’s fingers go. I hear the cum slosh in your mouth. “Mine. Every drop, mine.”

Grinning, you look back to me, and I pretend to be engrossed in the plight of a fly on the windowsill.

I don’t know how you even have the strength to grin. I’m surprised none of the neighbours called the police again to report a brutal murder.

Lucky me, I got to hear every minute, filtered through one thin layer of drywall. Every scream. Every thrust. Every moan.

And you know I hear you. You never make an effort to pipe down. No veil of modesty.

I came into my pillow three times, but, if my count is right, you outpaced me by one.

“Interesting bug?” You laugh.

I like when you laugh. Your mouth stretches wide and I can imagine shoving my cock inside.

“Um.” I blush. “Yeah.”

“So.” You cross your arms, making your tits bulge. “High school’s over. College isn’t till September. Couple empty months coming up.” You lean over the table. Your tits flow over your arms, brush the newspaper. “What do you want to do with them?”

I know exactly what I want to do.

Dad swallows a waffle chunk. “Yeah, what do you want to do, James?”

I try to look at Dad, but my gaze falters. It’s hard to look a man in the eye when you know he must have the cock of an ox.

So I look back to you. A nipple tries to poke through your shirt.

“I don’t know.” I slide a hand over my jeans, down to my cock. I squeeze it. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”


I’m looking for a woman to write James’ Mom’s side of the story. If there are multiple responses, I’ll choose my favourite.

“I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

"Be sure to let us know when you do. And don't take too long; otherwise Dad and I might have something in mind for you," I say, this time with a bit more sternness.

It is not easy to bring up a teenager, at all. And the difficulties compound when you are trying to bring up an ever-horny, male teenager who would jump at any opportunity to check out girls, ogle at their legs and ass, or to take peeks at cleavages. And James did this fairly openly; the only female I know he has not openly check out, is me. And that is something that, at times, I find difficult to reconcile.

Steve stand up, breaking my train of thought slightly. I know from his body language, that he is trying to make his "escape". He catches my gaze, and takes a half breath, as if bracing himself, before announcing that he needs to head back to the office for a quick while. Steve has long given up asking for permission that he was never going to get.

"On a Saturday?" I raise my eyebrows a little, and exhale deeply. It is a sign of resentment, one which I cannot conceal, and has been building up, even after all these years. I place my mug down, a little louder than I would have liked. After placing his crockery in the kitchen basin, Steve can only muster a quick peck on my cheek as he trots off, without even trying to explain himself. I can feel myself pulling away, even if slightly, from his touch.

"And you? James? Your plans for the weekend?" I turn my attention to the only other male in the house, and sound as if I am going to vent a little of my frustration. Completely throwing out the window the space and freedom I had just promised him moments earlier.

(Sorry I took so long to reply. Won't happen again. Also, I can't figure out how to change the name of the thread to say that it's closed.)



Jesus Christ. Body of an angel, jaws of a tiger.

But even with your claws showing, even with your eyes glinting malice, you still make me hard. Well, harder.

I try to answer what you’re thinking instead of what you’re asking: “I’m—I’m sure Dad’ll come home soon… pretty soon, at least.”

And you reprimand me for the mistake: “Your father will come home when he feels like coming home.” You stand up and look down at me. “You know that. I’m asking—”

I know you’re angry and I shouldn’t be happy if you’re angry. But when you get riled up, you bounce on your heels. Your whole body gyrates.

“—about you. Your plans for the weekend. Tell me.” You seem to catch yourself. Tension wipes from your face, but, behind your eyes, a spark remains. “Please.”

I hesitate. I can’t confess that I just planned to hang around and perv on you. That I only want to leave your presence when the pressure overwhelms me, and I have to escape to jack off.

Another impatient bounce on your heels. I suppress a smile, but indulge in giving my cock a rough squeeze.

“I…” My words ooze out. Both alarmed and aroused, I don’t know what to think. So I talk without thinking. “I was kinda hoping that we… I wanted to, you know, do something with you.”

Your turn to hesitate. Your eyes narrow and look me over, sizing me up. “Really?” You bend over and rest your elbows on the table, your ass vaulted in the air. You look like you’re ready to pounce. “What did you have in mind?”

Anything that gives me an excuse to stare at you and inhale your curves. Anything that puts me in danger of “accidentally” brushing against your ass.

But I can’t say that.

Yet your claws are still out. If I don’t say something, you’ll pounce. Devour me.

“I’m up for anything.” Well, my cock is up, at least. “What do you want to do, Mom?”

“I was kinda hoping that we… I wanted to, you know, do something with you.”

I pause, somewhat taken aback by his answer. I had pressed him into an answer merely to put him in a spot, something I could no longer seem to do with his father. I should have know better; the incredible fuck we had in the morning now seemed like something he did to make up for his impending absence on a Saturday. And that office slut - Rachel, I think if that is her name - better not be back in the office as well. I am riled.

I turn, bending over as I rest on my elbows on the table. My default defence has always to use my sexuality to overpower others, men and women alike. It is then I catch myself - this is my own son! But I cannot take it back immediately. Instead, I maintain my sternness.

"Really?" I probe, with a slight raising of my right brow.

“I’m up for anything. What do you want to do, Mom?”

I slowly stand back up, trying to recover myself before it is too late. But even then, in those few moments, with my arse pushed out and my breasts pressed together between my elbows, James did not even try to sneak a glance. Not even for a split-second.

"Bye honey," I hear Steve call out in the distant with almost a hint of enthusiasm, followed by the door closing behind him. A few moments later, the engine of his car revs up, and he disappears down the road.

Inside, I am now really fuming.

Then an idea strike me, and my lips break into a thin smile.

"Let's clean your room, James," I say, almost with a sadistic touch. It is, at least what I think, the one thing you hated to do the most.

*friendly bump*